


Undo Love

by beautifullyheeled



Series: No Redemption [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicidal John, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2260977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had been through war. </p>
<p>He’d lost his life, found it again.</p>
<p>Then he lost everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undo Love

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that this work is very heavy. There is no redemption. No Happily Ever After. No saving; no meeting in the afterlife.

_John had been through war._

_He’d lost his life, found it again._

_Then he lost everything._

Mary had been there since the fall. They had met at a grief support group, she was one of the volunteers that helped set up at the parish every Thursday evening. It was either go there, or continue to go to Ellie, and he couldn’t stand to associate with anything that reminded him of before.

He had stayed in London, moved fairly soon into his own flat thanks to the modest stipend he received through Sherlock’s dispensation. Mrs. Hudson had received similar, which made him happy to see that she would never have to let the flat or need another tenant again. Sherlock and Mycroft had seen to it. Which made it worse, that he had thought this might occur. That he actually had believed he would go before John, the fact that he never spoke his intentions stung so very bitterly.

John researched and found a nice quiet flat just on the other side of Regent’s Park. It was a first floor, two bedroom flat that was warm, clean, and welcoming. Cream walls, carmel granite flooring, dark wood accents. It felt like something he would have picked had he the chance to do so before the madman and the fall. It only took him a few days to move into the new space.

His initial choice made the second bedroom his own, further from the door and communal hall, which left the first one for his study. John had Sherlock’s antique desk moved with him, along with a few odds and ends from cases they had picked up, including the skull. He had purchased floor to ceiling bookcases that were modern, but matched the colouring of the old desk, and had them installed straightway, so that he could unpack the curios and all of their books. That was all that was left of Baker Street in John’s new life. One nicely appointed study that he could close the door to if he wished. 

It was just enough. 

Two nights later, he went to his first grief group at the local parish. He had never set foot in it before, and felt a little odd, but he knew he needed this, the anonymity he could have here. He met Mary over a cup of very strong coffee, and that felt right as well. Two months later, John asked her on their first date, six months after that he proposed. She said yes, and that was enough too. From there the banns were read, friends gathered, and sixty-two days after his proposal they said their vows in the same church where they had met. 

It was fine. All fine. 

They tried for a family straight away, and became pregnant very soon after. His friends were happy to see him moving forward and no longer grieving, happy with a wife and child on the way. John’s study was repacked and stored, leaving room for a small piece of heaven to nestle. The light yellow striping on the walls like softly glowing rays of hope, the small crib the promise of new life and tomorrows.

\---  
John received the phone call while he was just out of surgery. 

Lestrade met him in the hall, a grim look on his face. He had been there at the scene, and directed them here, had seen everything. John could hear Mary crying out before he reached her. She was dying, he was dying with her. They tried to save their daughter, she was so very small, barely seven and a half months along. He kissed Mary goodbye, thankful she at least was able to see their daughter before she passed. They whisked little Eilionoir Verity Watson to the NICU as her father cried over his wife’s still form.

The funeral was nine days later. 

Her parents had asked for her to be buried with the rest of her family, and how could he deny them, he had only had her a little less than two years of her life. It was ironic that her family was buried in the same gardens as Sherlock. Now both of his loves were in the same earth, even so, he still had warmth in his life if little Eilidh survived. He stopped by that day, to see him, afterward. John could not go to the wake. He wouldn’t make it emotionally and he had to get back to his little angel in the NICU. He had written Sherlock a letter, as he always did, detailing what was going on in his life and how much he missed the man. 

Much later that night, around four, he came home to shower and sleep. Then it would be back to the hospital and Eilidh. John didn’t mind, he was just thankful that she was fighting, she was so heartbreakingly tiny, but the strength of will she seemed to exude was just amazing. He texted Lestrade as he got in letting him know that the baptism would be allowed and if he could be there at the hospital tomorrow, he would appreciate it. Then he fired another asking for Myc to be there as well. It just felt right. He’d call Mol in the morning...well later in at least. 

He passed out as soon as his body hit the bed.

Later that morning, he awoke at nine, turned the kettle on and got dressed for the day ahead. Soft jersey knit with a soft dark blue cardigan, things that would not be abrasive on him and easy to remove when he kangarooed Eilidh later that day. There was a ring, and when he found out it was a parcel, he rang them in and told them to leave it by his door. As soon as he was finished dressing, he went and opened his door to get the parcel. It was a small pristinely wrapped gift and a dozen bright pink roses pre-arranged. Opening the gift, he found a very finely made knitted shell pink baby blanket with her monogram in one corner. 

He’d remember to thank Greg and Myc, or both once they joined him in the next hour. John folded it once again, and placed it in his duffel as he headed out the door to his reason for living. A daughter, his alone now. Ten precious days so far, he knew it would be touch and go for a while yet, but she seemed to be responding well. Thinking about the blanket he realised he could use it to cover the iso she was in instead of the hospital issue that was currently there. He worried over the baptism today, but knew it needed to be done, prayed if something happened to her that she found her way to her mother’s arms. Maybe Sherlock would know, if she passed, that a part of him were there, seek her out. 

_No, none of that, John. Your daughter is here with you, stop this nonsense._

The two men met up with John outside of the NICU, tentative and quiet. John smiled, greeted them, and led the way into the family area to wait for Mol and the minister. They spoke quietly amongst one another until John excused himself to go to his daughter. Twenty minutes later, the five adults in the SFU around the little isolette said their parts and listened to the prayers that were lifted for John’s little miracle. John thanked them all for coming, then promised to have them all over once the two Watsons were settled in at home. 

John’s days and nights were now spent at the hospital. He was allowed paternity leave, but opted to take it later, when she came home as he was here in the same facility with his daughter during his scheduled patients and only working three day rotations at this point because he had been spending more time at home with Mary in preparation for Eilidh. It seemed pretty seamless, his existence. Oh, he missed Mary awfully, but he had known this type of grief once before, and he also had his beautiful growing daughter to see to. 

Her lungs were terrific, and she responded well with the kangarooing and feeding schedule that Eilidh’s caregivers had suggested. It looked as if she would make it home just past her original due date. Mol had recently been coming by once a week to trade off on the vigil so he could get home and take care of things, and it had helped immensely. Tonight, as he head out the NICU, it was with the knowledge that in the next few days, Eilidh would be coming home with him for good. 

John had begun packing Mary’s things and already had two boxes labeled and ready to store at her parent’s home. He had kept their wedding portrait and one of her by herself from their honeymoon for his room, the rest he packed away. Then as he moved on to her personal bureau, he found a small thick book nestled in the back behind her personal effects. When John opened it, his knees buckled and he had to sit down. It was Mary’s diary. It started just after they met, and there were so many little things written about their courtship it made him laugh. He was so very thankful that he’d be able to pass this to their daughter one day. 

Then he reached the entry for March 7, right after the proposal. 

Mary had run into an old friend from her Uni days. They had lunch and she said they’d be in contact again. As John continued to read, his whole marriage began to unravel before him. The two met back up shortly after they had gotten back from their honeymoon in Paris. Her ‘old friend’ had come over and they had wound up in each other’s arms, more than...oh, god.  
John read on, grew sick with the knowledge he had gleaned. He finally stopped at the last entry, the morning Mary died. 

He rang Lestrade.

“Lestrade here.” He answered immediately.

“Greg...it’s John. I...I need you over here, can you come?”

“I’ll be there in twenty mate.”

“Thanks, Greg. Could Myc come too?”

“Christ, what’s wrong? Little Aylee alright?”

“Yea, she’s fine. Perfect. I’m...not so well.”

“Be there in ten.”

True to his word, ten minutes later Greg and Mycroft were being rang in and headed upstairs. John unlocked and opened his door before he headed to the kitchen to turn the kettle on. What he really needed was a shot of something. Whiskey preferably.

“Fuck!” He railed and slammed the cabinet door before he threw the mugs onto the counter. John could give a care if they splintered, he was in a right state. 

“John?” Mycroft spoke calmly towards him. “You alright?”

“No, I’m not fucking alright.” John had actually begun to visibly shake. “Mary...Mary was having an affair.”

“I’m sorry John,” Greg was now in the kitchen with him, “I am, but she’s gone. We need to get you sat down before you have a coronary or something.”

“I don’t want to sit the bloody well down. Don’t you understand! She suicided!”

The room was instantaneously silent, all the oxygen taken out of it, then there was nothing but movement as John fainted. Greg rushed to catch him while Mycroft went straight to John’s room and his crash kit. 

“Don’t move him!” Mycroft reminded Greg as he cracked the ammonium carbonate and used it on John to rouse him. It took a second, but John was back and livid. He began to cry bitter tears over his false marriage, over the fact he had been fooled into thinking he made her happy. He had, but not enough it seemed. She had rather take her own life then ever face the truth. 

“Eilionoir isn’t mine.”

In the end, they’d done the necessary tests. It was, indeed what John had feared, the child he had so loved was not biologically his. They made the adjustments that were needed to the birth certificate, then once again, another chapter bitterly closed in John’s life. In his grief, John had them make the necessary adjustments to the birth certificate. Once again, a chapter closed bitterly in his life, as Mary’s parent’s took over stewardship for their granddaughter, the last link they had to their daughter . John was broken, but it had been his request that started all this. His need to know for sure. And who was he to ask for what was no longer his? 

Myc had come by to see how he was faring and found John in the middle of the delegation of his office being set to rights once again, all signs of the nursery gone. He had offered kind words, but John hadn’t heard them. It was hard on all of them to watch John sink back within himself. Mycroft could not blame him for the emotions John was determined to work through, even if he worried about him as he once had with Sherlock. They had tea, discussed John’s upcoming return to the hospital, and Greg’s upcoming birthday. It felt normal, which of course, had Mycroft on edge, but he said nothing as there were workers who could easily hear. He left shortly after he finished his tea on the promise that they would see him the following Saturday. 

Later that evening, John went to the cemetery. He hadn’t written anything this time, it was too painful. He had drank steadily since the workers left, then decided to come simply to be close with Sherlock, to talk to him. To beg him, once again, to not leave him truly alone. Crying out to God for a miracle because he only saw two options, both had John equally emotional.

“Sherlock, please, for me...I can’t anymore. My life, it’s gutted, just gone.”

John sat as he placed his back against the cold dark stone, his mind too caught up in the labyrinth of pain he was experiencing, the ground still warm from the sun that would soon set.

“Another day gone, Sherlock. That’s 729 days to many for me. Two years to the day today. I wonder if that was the real reason behind Mycroft’s visit...you’d be able to tell me in an instant if you were here just by getting a look at me.”

John sat quietly as if he expected an answer, opened his flask and took a pull. 

“Well, I’m off home I suppose. Not really home, never was, but you were. You’re my home Sherlock. I miss you...I’m Holmesick...now that should have at least gotten a scoff...I do miss you. You’re really the only person I’ve ever really loved, I suppose. Never got done mourning you. That’s alright though, I’ll be with you soon.”

John stood, touched the marker once reverently as he always did.

“I’m done being alone. I can’t be where you aren’t anymore Sherlock...not strong enough.”

With that, John turned, and went to the main gate to the taxi he had pre-arranged. When he got to his building, he paid the cabbie and went to his flat. He turned the taps to run a bath as he stripped then pulled on his robe and headed toward his kitchen for the whiskey. He grabbed it, a glass, then laughed at the idea of being so civilised about ending his own life. John knew he should be stronger, but he just didn’t have it in himself anymore. He put his iPod in the wall dock, chose his playlist, then sank into the steamy bath.

It felt so damn good to be in here, whiskey in hand, just an almost perfect moment really. He reached down for the first five pills to take them, swallowing bitterly, before he took a good pull from the glass. Soon none of this would matter to him anymore. He just hoped he would end up with Sherlock somehow, like he had been waiting the entire time just on the other side of the veil between life and death. Poor Mary, that she thought that was the only resolution, to leave him. He could have loved her anyway, loved little Eilionoir. Been a good father and husband, John knew he used to have it in him at one time.

John blinked his eyes hard against the heaviness knowing he had to take at least one more round of the concoction he had worked out. Even then, if he passed out he’d be too medicated to care or fight the drowning, possibly both.

“Sherlock...” The word was so hard to get out, but he wanted to hear his voice say it just once. He had thought it so many times, maybe if he vocalised it? “I love you, miss you. So sorry...I waited so long. I should have been more for you...maybe then...”

His body slipped deeper into the water. He used his toes to turn the hot on again, he wanted to be warm so he could imagine being held in those arms in that damnable Belstaff, wanted to smell him in the moist air that surrounded him. That wasn’t to be, none of it was, but it was so very nice to dream. 

To sleep...

Moriarty had caused Sherlock to sleep, that was all, John had tucked him in so very nicely deep in the earth away from the cold. Then, Mary had taken herself off, he tucked her in as well left her for her parents to watch after her last earthly home, Mary’s living daughter. God, how his heart ached for the child, he knew it now, too good to be true. It had been sort of a faerie tale for a moment hadn’t it? A lovely one, possibility, life, love, then a legacy. 

No more though, now...not his. 

John finally gave in to the seductive pull of the darkness that begged him to follow.


End file.
